


(souls are) out of tune

by fandomlver



Series: Powers 'Verse [12]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU for through a glass darkly, Gen, Humiliation as torture, Mind Control, Slavery, That's totally a thing, You will never convince me this didn't really happen, my mind is a strange place, sort of, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7316908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marmion has one more trick up his sleeve, and it will cost d'Artagnan dearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SailorSol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorSol/gifts).



> One of various short fics I'm working on. We're on an every two days posting schedule, unless I forget. :-D
> 
> This picks up near the end of the episode, just a few minutes before the Musketeers would have burst in to the rescue.
> 
> Also, please no spoilers! We're watching on the BBC's schedule. No discussion of anything coming up, please.

The others aren’t far away. He only needs to stall for a couple of minutes. “Flip the coin, we all win or we all lose.”

Marmion stares at him for a long time. “No,” he says finally. “No, I have a different game.”

“What game?”

“You're very loyal to him.”

d’Artagnan is very cold. Marmion has a new plan. He doesn’t think it bodes well. “Yes.”

“Good. Then this is the game.” He flips the coin, covers it without looking at it. “Call the coin. If you are correct, your king and your lady friend will go free, and you will stay and serve me.”

“No!” Constance shouts, and grunts as someone silences her.

Louis is silent.

“And if I’m wrong?” d’Artagnan asks.

“If you are wrong, then your king and his son die, and you and your lady walk free. That is my game. It’s the only game you have left.”

“Don’t!” Constance shouts.

Marmion smiles, almost kind. “If you don’t choose, your king, his son and your lady friend all die. You can live with knowing you might have saved them.”

“He can’t win, that’s not fair!”

“He can win by playing. Then at least the king has a chance. And you’d be safe.”

Louis is so silent. And the others are too far away. They’re not going to get here in time. The dauphin is safe with Aramis, but if the king...

“Tails.”

Marmion smiles, almost gently. “Are you sure? Think of what you’re risking. Your king’s life, or your freedom. Be certain in your choice.”

“Tails.”

“d’Artagnan, please don’t do this,” Constance begs.

Louis is silent. d’Artagnan doesn’t look at him. He’s so far gone now d’Artagnan’s not sure he’s registering what’s going on.

“Tails.”

Marmion looks at the coin. His emotions swing so wildly that d’Artagnan can’t make them out.

He looks up, gesturing one of the guards over.

“Make your vow,” he says. “That you will obey and serve. This man will make sure you agree.”

“And then they go free?” d’Artagnan demands. “The queen and dauphin too?” Maramion doesn’t know they’re free yet, he needs to keep up the pretense.

“Then they go free. Make the vow.”

He hesitates, hoping he can stall until the others get here. “And you won’t just order them killed?”

“Make the vow or they’ll certainly be killed,” Marmion says serenely. The man holding Constance pulls a pistol, pressing it into her side. He’ll fire, d’Artagnan can feel it from here.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

The others are so far away still. 

“I will obey and serve,” he says obediently.

“Say ‘I vow’.”

“I vow I will obey and serve.”

His skin burns for a fraction of a second, over before he’s even registered it. Too late, he realises what Marmion meant.

“A demonstration, I think,” Marmion says. “Kill the woman, d’Artagnan.”

It doesn’t even occur to him to obey, but when he does nothing his skin flushes, then warms, then burns. He holds out for nearly thirty seconds before he screams, falling to his knees.

“Don’t kill the woman, d’Artagnan,” Marmion says lazily, and the pain vanishes as though it had never been. He stays on his knees, head down, drawing in long breaths to try and calm himself.

Constance is crying, he can tell by her voice. “You’re a monster.”

“I am Fate’s instrument. Come along, d’Artagnan, let’s go.”

d’Artagnan stands before he registers the movement. The guard cuts his ropes, freeing his hands, and hands over his sword and dagger.

“Before you get any ideas,” Marmion says, “you will never harm me, d’Artagnan, nor allow harm to come to me if you can avoid it.” He feels the order settling in and grimaces, sheathing his weapons.

“Tie the king and the lady to their chairs,” Marmion tells one of the guards. “Let’s give ourselves all the time we can. This way, d’Artagnan.”

d’Artagnan follows mutely.

 

They’re halfway down a corridor, heading for the cellar and presumably a way out, when Porthos shouts from behind them. d’Artagnan’s orders force him to turn, drawing his sword. “Porthos, stop!”

Porthos doesn’t, and d’Artagnan takes a step forward, lifting his sword into position. “Porthos, _stop_!”

It works, this time; he comes to a halt, staring at him. “What’re you doing? Stop him!”

“I _can’t_.”

“d’Artagnan, do be quiet, there’s a good boy,” Marmion says. d’Artagnan’s mouth snaps shut so fast he hears the click. “Get rid of him,” Marmion adds, and d’Artagnan jerks into motion, trying desperately to apologise with his expressions. He can’t tell if Porthos catches it, he’s too busy fighting, driving him back up the corridor, trying to break through his defense to take him down long enough to satisfy the order. If Porthos understands what’s happening, he’s not showing it, fighting as fiercely as he can.

Rochefort is behind him. He’s not making any threatening moves, not holding a weapon; he’s just watching, eyes narrowed. d’Artagnan ignores him. He doesn’t have any orders about Rochefort.

Porthos is favouring his shoulder. Something must have happened. d’Artagnan concentrates on it, forces him to overuse it until it gives way under the strain, beats Porthos down to his knees.

He heaves in a breath, silently begs forgiveness, and brings the hilt of his sword down against Porthos’ temple. He crumples, already bleeding.

d’Artagnan almost throws up, but the damn orders won’t let him. He goes back to Marmion and follows him away.


	2. Chapter 2

Marmion lets d’Artagnan mount one of the horses waiting for them before he says cheerfully “Close your eyes and keep them closed until I say otherwise, d’Artagnan.”

d’Artagnan doesn’t fight the order - hopefully he’ll be able to peek as they travel if he doesn’t wear himself out now - just grips the pommel in one hand and the horse’s mane in the other. Marmion gathers up his reins, leading him into a trot.

d’Artagnan tells himself he can’t hear Constance calling for him as they round the corner of the old building and ride away.

He spends some time trying to understand the vow. Some of the orders he can’t fight; he was beating Porthos down almost before he realised what was happening. Some he can fight if he tries; he can open his eyes for a heartbeat or two before the pain starts, not long enough to see anything useful. He guesses it must be because he swore _to obey and serve_ , but he doesn’t know what the difference is or how the vow defines each one.

They ride for a long time. He tries to remember the path, but without visual clues he can’t keep it in his head. They’re taking smaller, rougher tracks, and more than once he feels something brush against his legs. They’re passing through fields or woodland.

It’s unlikely anyone will be able to track them.

Eventually the horses stop and Marmion orders him down. Someone takes his arm and hustles him into a building, down a flight of stairs into a damp, cold cellar, and presses him against a wall. The damp immediately starts to work its way into his clothes.

“You can open your eyes now, d’Artagnan,” Marmion says. “You will not approach this doorway.” The hands holding him fall away and he blinks several times, trying to adjust to the light, low as it is.

He’s standing at the back of a small niche, barely wider than his shoulders. Marmion and a guard are standing outside it, in the cellar proper, watching him. He holds himself very still.

“Good,” Marmion says with a smirk. “Come with me,” he tells the guard, and they both vanish, leaving the niche in near darkness. There’s a torch out in the cellar somewhere, but it does little more than throw shadows.

d’Artagnan holds himself still for several minutes, listening intently. There’s no sound from the cellar, and he knows the difference between men keeping quiet and true emptiness. He’s alone. He relaxes, taking a step away from the wall to examine his cell.

His skin starts to burn and he hurls himself back at the wall, spread eagle as he catches his balance. That shouldn’t have - he didn’t go near the door…

It takes a couple of experiments before he figures it out. Because he’s already as far from the door as he can be, the vow is interpreting any movement at all as ‘towards the door’. He can’t move around. He can’t sit, because he’d be nearer the door. Leaning to either side produces an uncomfortable prickling sensation, not quite pain but the promise of it if he’s not careful. He grimaces, leans against the back wall and sets himself to wait.

 

“He was taking orders,” Porthos says for the third time, wincing as Aramis lets him go. “Marmion said shut up, I heard his teeth click. He was obeying.”

“I can understand obeying to get Marmion away from the king,” Athos murmurs. “Playing along. But attacking you? That’s going rather far to keep up a charade that was unnecessary by then.”

“Perhaps there’s something we don’t know,” Aramis says. “d’Artagnan is better now about fighting when it’s not necessary.”

“Perhaps,” Athos agrees, “but until we-”

Constance bursts in, panting for breath. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly, “but I heard you were leaving soon.”

“We need to move while the trail is fresh,” Porthos agrees. “We’re just waiting for a couple foresters who know that area well.”

“Then I need to talk to you first.”

“Has Dr Lemay looked at you?” Aramis asks, studying the cut up wrists and bruised cheek.

“Yes, yes,” she says impatiently, “the queen wouldn’t let me come to see you until he’d looked at me.”

“You have something to tell us?” Athos asks.

She nods, reciting the events as best she remembers them. It’s rushed and confused but they get the gist of it.

“And then Marmion said ‘kill the woman’ and he didn’t, of course he didn’t, but it hurt him, so badly. I could see it getting worse, and then he screamed - I’ve never heard anything like it. I think he’d have begged if he could. And Marmion just _watched_ and then eventually he said ‘don’t kill her’ and it all stopped. It didn’t hurt him anymore, you could see, but he was so worn out, and when Marmion said ‘stand’ and ‘come’ it was like he didn’t even hear it, his body just did it.” She turns to look at Porthos. “I heard that he hurt you, but I swear to you, it wasn’t him. It was all Marmion and that guard of his.”

“I know it wasn’t,” Porthos says encouragingly. “Of course I know that. He’d never hurt us, any more n’he’d hurt you. Don’t worry about that.”

“Can you describe the guard to us?” Aramis asks. “The one who oversaw this vow?”

Constance does her best, and Aramis thanks her sincerely. Since he can’t touch her at the moment, it’s Porthos who escorts her back to the queen, thanking her and promising that they’ll bring back d’Artagnan.

“The guard?” Athos asks quietly.

“If we kill him, it may disrupt the vow.”

“ _May?_ ”

He shrugs hopelessly. “It’s all I have, Athos.”

“Then it will be enough.” Athos squeezes his arm tightly.

A guard appears to tell them their guides are ready, and Aramis straightens. “Let’s go, then.”

 

The torch gutters out after a while, and d’Artagnan has no way to gauge time apart from the growing pain in his legs and back. He’s thirsty, naggingly, painfully so. His head hurts and his eyes are dry.

Above him, Marmion is sleeping.

The headache and thirst keep d'Artagnan awake, which is probably lucky. He doesn’t like to think about what would happen if he slipped. As it is, he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, trying to concentrate on the people in the building. Knowing their routines and their personalities may help him, and it keeps his mind busy.

That works for a while, and then his leg cramps viciously and he pitches forward, landing on hands and knees. The burning starts immediately but in the cramped space he can’t figure out how to get upright again, he can’t put any weight on his leg, and it’s getting worse.

He’ll go mad. It’ll be a blessing. No one could take this and live. The burning is moving inward now, so his skin is burning, and his blood, and his bones…

He has no idea how he does it, but he regains his feet, pressing against the wall. The pain eases off, but not all the way; he feels too hot all over, like a bad sunburn, and he realises with dread that the vow is not retreating. If he falls again, he’ll keep burning.

Marmion is still asleep, and though d'Artagnan knows he was screaming no one above reacted at all. They can’t hear him. No one will help him.

He digs his fingers into the tiny gaps between the stones of the wall at his back, ignoring the pain as his nails tear and bleed. It’s not much help, but he needs every advantage he can get.

He rips out three nails the next time he falls.

 

They start at the observatory, where a handful of Musketeers are still flushing out the last of Marmion’s men. The guides start casting around for prints. The others dismount to look around. Aramis goes inside to look over the prisoners the Musketeers have already found.

The men are huddled sullenly in the main room. There’s one terrified woman, who was some kind of maid servant; Bluchart, the Musketeer in charge, tells Aramis he’s happy she didn’t know anything, and that she’ll be escorted to the nearest village soon. Aramis doesn’t care much. He goes to look over the men.

“Bluchart,” he says, “I need that one.”

Bluchart studies him. “That one nearly killed Erik.”

“He won’t get away from us. He had something to do with Marmion’s being able to subdue d’Artagnan. We may need him.”

“Always in trouble, your pup,” Bluchart says, but there’s no derision in it. “Take him if you want him. We’ve got enough to worry about.”

Aramis nods, checks the bindings on the man and jerks him to his feet. He may be useful. If not - well, he can hang in the forest as easily as in Paris. He drags the man outside to join the others.

 

Athos once told d'Artagnan that there is no shame in begging for pain to stop. It’s good advice, kindly meant, and d'Artagnan has clung to it more than once since then. But today it’s useless. By the time Marmion comes back d'Artagnan is far beyond begging.

He’s curled in a ball at the base of the wall, as far from the door as he can manage. The burning consumes every part of him, but he can’t fall unconscious. He can’t remember what it was like before. It takes him a long time to realise that the pain has stopped; he didn’t consciously hear the order.

He does hear ‘come here, d'Artagnan’ and though he didn’t think he was able yet, he moves towards the door. He can’t stand, so he crawls. He doesn’t think Marmion will object.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks jovially. “I did, but we have a busy day today. Time to get ready. Come with me, d'Artagnan.”

Phantom pain lingers in every part of d'Artagnan’ body. His throat is raw from screaming and thirst; when he tries to speak it’s like swallowing glass. He doesn’t dare try again, but Marmion seems to understand. “If you behave yourself, and don’t make me order you, you can have a drink.”

d'Artagnan thinks he should be ashamed of how quickly he nods, but he understands there are times when it’s pointless being ashamed of the things he does to survive. Later, maybe, he’ll have time for that. When he’s home.

Marmion turns him over to two guards, who strip and wash him. It’s more or less impersonal, but the only care they take is to make sure he can’t drink any of the water, and he’s picked up several bruises by the time they dry him off and point him to his new clothes.

It’s a Red Guard uniform. They’re expecting him to fight - looking forward to it - but he doesn’t bother. This isn’t something worth fighting over. He pulls on the clothes and stands waiting for the next order.

He’s led into a dining hall where Marmion is eating breakfast. Someone kicks at the back of his leg and he falls beside Marmion’s chair, rising only as far as his knees.

“You do look rather better,” Marmion says. “My sponsor will be very happy to see you.”

d'Artagnan doesn’t let himself react, but his mind is racing. A sponsor. That’s how Marmion pulled all this off. He was working with someone, someone in the court.

“Did he behave?” Marmion asks one of the guards. d'Artagnan ignores the conversation. Marmion will feed him or not, it won’t actually have anything to do with his behaviour.

“So you can learn.” There’s laughter in Marmion’s tone. d'Artagnan ignores that, too. “Amazing what a little pain will do to someone. Well, I promised you a drink, so…”

He holds out a goblet, turns it over and lets the water pour on the floor. “Drink up.”

d'Artagnan stares at the puddle for a long moment; too long for Marmion. His voice is harder when he says “Lie down, d'Artagnan, and lick up every drop of it. And thank me for it.”

This is one he can fight, but he hesitates only long enough for the pain to start before lying down. “Thank you,” he says, and licks up some. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

They stop for the evening a few hours later.

Porthos does most of the work - he often does, in hands on interrogations - and it’s not long before Simon is telling them everything he knows. Sadly, none of it is particularly helpful. He can’t - or won’t - say whether killing him will end the vow or cement it in place; he knows that Marmion was getting help from someone, but not who; he claims that the king was not the target of Marmion’s plan, but he doesn’t know was. The only really useful thing he knows is the location of Marmion’s hideout.

Athos sends the first guide back to Paris to tell Treville that someone was helping Marmion, in case another plot is going on. They don’t need the palace attacked while they’re out here.

The hideout is several hours away, and it’s almost dark. “We’ll rest and eat,” he says, “and go on in the morning.” He hates to do it - every part of him is yearning to go after d'Artagnan at once - but there’s no point in them injuring themselves to do it.

Porthos ties Simon to a tree. Aramis gets something cooking. Athos paces the perimeter uneasily.

Aramis passes around the food. Athos picks at his, forcing himself to eat through sheer force of will. None of them have much appetite, but they’ve been soldiers too long to let themselves go hungry.

Athos takes first watch. Hopefully he can work off some of the nervous energy and be ready to sleep when Porthos wakes. They’ll let Aramis sleep as much as possible in case he’s needed tomorrow.

He cuts off that train of thought sharply and occupies himself pacing their little campsite. “Hold on, d’Artagnan,” he murmurs. “Hold on. We are coming.”

 

Marmion spends some time making d'Artagnan do humiliating things. d'Artagnan doesn’t bother being humiliated. It’s a waste of energy he can’t afford right now.

Eventually Marmion positions him on his knees in a study. d'Artagnan is exhausted and in pain and his shields are steadily buckling. Already he knows far more about Marmion than he ever wants to.

“You will not see or hear anything until I tell you otherwise, d'Artagnan,” Marmion said. d'Artagnan’ vision tunnels and darkens until there’s nothing there, and sounds muffle and then vanish. He can’t hear his own heartbeats or his panicked breaths.

Fire licks along his limbs. He can’t hear himself, but he knows he’s screaming. He didn’t hear the order, he doesn’t know how to make it stop, it’s burning in towards his core…

Hands press against him, dragging him back to kneeling. Marmion’s hand fastens around his throat, blocking his breathing. d'Artagnan holds himself as still as he can, trembling with the need to struggle, to breathe. The threat of the fire keeps him still.

Eventually Marmion’s grip loosens enough for one breath, then tightens again. After a couple of repetitions d'Artagnan understands. He forces himself to breath in the slow, steady rhythm, ignoring the ache in his chest. Marmion lets go. d'Artagnan keeps the rhythm going.

Someone pats his head. He does not flinch.

He kneels for a long time in silence and darkness. Marmion doesn’t know, of course, that he has other ways to know what’s happening around him. The occasional strike or kick doesn’t take him by surprise, and he’s mostly able to keep from falling out of position. Still, he’s at the sunburn stage when Marmion gets bored and comes back to torment him some more.

His vision clears, shadows and light at first, then focus, then colour. His hearing comes back all at once, though, and he jumps violently when a vase smashes beside him. The burning pain punishes him and he kneels in the shards without moving.

“Time to do something about your manners, I think,” Marmion drawls. “I am _Master_. Say it out loud, d'Artagnan.”

It takes him four tries to get it past the screaming when the burning pain hits.

“Excellent. Come with me.”

He starts to follow.

“Ah ah.” Marmion holds up one finger. “Men walk. Perhaps even slaves walk. But you are something less than that, now, so you crawl. Perhaps in time we’ll work our way down to a belly shuffle, but for now, crawling will do.”

There are still shards of the vase in his knees. d'Artagnan stays still.

Marmion makes it an order. d'Artagnan stays still until the burning starts, and then he curls up where he is. If this is the only way he can fight, he’ll use it.

Eventually Marmion figures out what the problem is, and he’s allowed to remove the shards, but not to clean or bandage himself. Marmion takes him crawling, then, up and down stairs, around corridors and rooms until d'Artagnan is sure they’ve circled the whole place several times. Then Marmion tosses him a cloth and orders him to go back along their path, following it exactly, and clean up all the blood. d'Artagnan has no idea of most of the path and has to use the pain as a sort of compass; if he’s burning, he’s going the wrong way.

He’s almost ready to drop when he finally makes his way back to Marmion. He hasn’t slept properly in two days, he’s been in pain for most of that, he’s not eaten or drunk apart from the muck from Marmion’s floor. He just wants to collapse.

Marmion eyes him. “Not quite yet, I think...let’s see some jumps, d'Artagnan, until I tell you to stop.”

d'Artagnan jumps up and down on the spot. It’s almost restful, until Marmion starts listing Bible verses by number and demanding he identify them correctly. That takes time, and all his focus, and he can’t retreat into his mind, can’t hide from what’s happening.

Finally, finally Marmion lets him stop jumping. He collapses on the spot, shaking. He’s never been so worn out, so worn away.

“Don’t sleep yet, d'Artagnan.” The damn order forces him to sit upright, pinching his own arm to keep awake. “Answer me honestly, d'Artagnan.”

“Answer what?” His voice is slurred, tongue too thick in his mouth.

Marmion smiles down at him, almost kindly. “Let’s talk about security at the palace, d'Artagnan.”

 

“Where does the queen sleep?”

“In her chambers.”

“Where are her chambers?”

“In the palace.”

“Where exactly?”

“Upstairs.” Oh, it hurts, skirting the edges of the order for honesty. He’s so tired, he can barely form words, let alone keep track of what he’s saying. Only the knowledge that that was the whole point of wearing him out is letting him hold on.

“Which part of the palace?”

“The royal wing.”

Marmion’s so patient. Why is he so patient? “North or south?”

“North.” There’s no way around that one.

“And her guards?”

“From the Corps. I don’t know the details.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes. Please…”

Marmion sighs. “d'Artagnan, I feel as though you’re not being honest.”

“Vowed,” he points out.

“Yes, the vow. Tricky thing, that. It doesn’t know the difference between possible and impossible, did you know that? I could order you to - let’s see - press both feet against the ceiling and hang from them, and you’d burn until you did it. Hmm? I could order you to stop breathing, how about that? Shall we try that for a while?”

“Then you'll never find out.”

“You're very fatalistic. Did you learn that from your friends? They’re not coming, if that’s what you think. They rode back to the palace without even looking for you, you know.”

“They’re coming.”

Marmion smiles. “I could order you to forget them. To be afraid of them. Would you like that? That might be fun, actually. Seeing you cringe away if they ever do make it here…”

d'Artagnan doesn't answer, unwilling to give him any more ammunition. At least this seems to be distracting him from talk of the queen’s chambers.

“Answer me, d'Artagnan. Would you like that?”

He lets himself burn until Marmion cancels the order. Pointless; just doing that gives Marmion his answer. But it makes him feel better.

“Well, let's try something simpler for now. We can work up to hanging from the ceiling. Up on your toes and don't move, d'Artagnan.”

He's not surprised when Marmion pulls out a whip.


	4. Chapter 4

They reach Marmion’s hideout late in the afternoon. d'Artagnan has been with Marmion for just over two days. Athos plans to have him free by that evening.

Porthos ties Simon firmly to a tree, gagging him so he can’t warn any guards that might be around. They’ve discussed killing him, but Aramis thinks they may need him yet.

If Simon knew any secret ways into the building, he kept them to himself. Aramis and Porthos scout it out and report a cellar entrance that seems to be unguarded. Athos leads them in that way. 

The cellar is empty. They head upstairs, silently clearing rooms as they go. Most of the building seems to be unoccupied. Porthos dispatches a guard; Aramis manages to lock the female cook in the pantry so she can’t raise the alarm. There’s no one else.

Athos is getting jumpy, and it gets worse the longer they go without meeting resistance. This can go wrong in so many ways, and the chances of it going right seem to be shrinking.

“Porthos,” he says quietly, “Fade, and stay with us. We’ll give you a chance if we can.” Porthos nods; Athos glances away as a shadow moves, and when he looks back Porthos has vanished. He nods to Aramis, continuing quietly through the building.

They find themselves in a dining hall. d'Artagnan is standing near the far door, standing very still. Athos can see him trembling from right across the room. He’s never seen him look so wrecked.

Athos takes a step forward. Aramis hisses “Stop!” but it’s too late; d'Artagnan has lifted his dagger and stabbed his own arm. There’s no change in his expression.

Marmion wanders out of the shadows, smiling. “Yes, it’s rather difficult, isn’t it?” he says lightly. “If you turn around and leave, he won’t have to hurt himself any more. That was an arm; there are plenty of other places he can stab.” He presses one finger to his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if he’ll be able to fall down when he runs out of blood. I know he can’t faint. We’ve tested that quite thoroughly.”

d'Artagnan isn’t reacting to any of it, just watching them carefully. He shifts as though to stab himself again, even though none of them have moved, but instead he falls forward, screaming, scrabbling at his own skin.

“End this now,” Athos orders. Marmion looks faintly confused; whatever’s happening to d'Artagnan isn’t stopping, though his screams are growing increasingly hoarse as he struggles to breathe past the pain. “Stop it now and we will allow you to live.”

d'Artagnan is weeping, silent and helpless, and Athos realises with a jerk that he doesn’t expect the pain to end. Whatever order he’s disobeying, he’s doing it deliberately, so it has to be something that helps them, but what…?

Marmion jerks suddenly, slumping forward. There’s a dagger in his neck. Athos stares at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before he realises what’s happened.

d'Artagnan shrieks once, on and on and on, and finally falls silent, breathing torn and ragged. Aramis starts forward, but Pothos shakes his head quickly. “He’s hurt. You’d better not until we know if the building is clear.”

Athos goes to kneel by d’Artagnan instead, letting Porthos deal with the body. d'Artagnan’s eyes are open but unfocused, and he twitches away when Athos kneels next to him. “It’s me,” Athos murmurs, keeping his hands in sight. “Just me, d’Artagnan. Can you sense me?”

d’Artagnan is trembling, eyes still unfocused. But his hand crawls across the space between them, achingly slowly, and tightens in his tunic.

 

They carry him out and back to the campsite. Porthos rides ahead, and by the time Athos and Aramis catch up Simon has vanished and there’s a bedroll ready by the fire, which is burning brightly. Porthos helps Athos dismount - d’Artagnan hasn’t given up that one small grip on his shirt - and at Aramis’ direction Athos sits on the bedroll, letting d’Artagnan lean against him.

“Don’t touch his skin,” Aramis murmurs, “just hold him there.” Athos obeys, wrapping an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder as Aramis talks quietly about nothing. He works without a change in his expression and, as he’s finishing up, d’Artagnan closes his eyes and sags more heavily against Athos.

“Let him sleep. He needs it. He’ll sleep about eight hours. Have something ready for him to eat, something light.” Aramis is holding himself upright with some effort, Athos realises, whistling for Porthos.

Porthos lays another bedroll beside d’Artagnan’s, so they’ll both be near the fire, and they get their respective charges lying down. Aramis curls on his side facing d’Artagnan, although he’s asleep very quickly. d’Artagnan keeps hold of Athos’ tunic.

“I’ll stay on watch,” Porthos says quietly. “You’re needed. I don’t think we’ll be travelling tonight, I can sleep then.”

Athos nods quietly, patting Porthos’ arm gratefully. Porthos grins and goes to walk the perimeter of the camp. Athos settles beside d’Artagnan and watches him sleep.

 

d’Artagnan wakes long enough to eat and fall back asleep. Aramis wakes for rather longer.

“I don’t think he’d slept or eaten since he was taken,” he tells the others quietly. “He was on the edge of collapse. The vow caused a lot of pain without real damage, but that still has an effect on the body. He’d torn some fingernails and there were whip marks on his back and chest. I got those in time, there’ll be very little scarring. Almost unnoticeable.”

Athos nods quietly, trying not to get too angry for the sake of the boy sleeping behind them. “Nothing lasting?”

Aramis shrugs. “Nothing I could see. But I’ve never seen an Ability like this. Hopefully with Simon and Marmion both gone…” He leaves the rest unsaid.

“Marmion said he couldn’t faint,” Porthos says quietly. “How’d he know?”

“Lying to throw us off, possibly,” Aramis answers.

“Or they really did test it.”

“He hasn’t bled that much that recently. He was certainly exhausted, though. Perhaps that’s all Marmion meant.”

“ _All,_ ” Athos murmurs. Aramis accepts the not-quite-rebuke with a nod. “Get some rest, Aramis. Porthos and I can manage the watch.”

“I’m quite recovered…”

“All the same. I’d feel better if you were rested tomorrow. You understand his Ability better than we do and he may need to talk about it.”

“Well, goodness knows I can’t talk when I’m tired,” he agrees solemnly, but it’s arguing for argument’s sake and he lets Athos settle him back down beside d’Artagnan.

Athos sends Porthos to rest and tries not to miss the hand gripping his tunic. If d’Artagnan’s feeling steadier, that’s good. It’s a good thing.

He takes up his watch.


	5. Chapter 5

d’Artagnan wakes to find himself curled around Aramis. The older man must feel him tense, because he murmurs “It’s all right, there’s no skin touching. You’re fine. How are you feeling?”

He takes a moment to examine himself. “Fuzzy,” he says finally. “What…”

“What do you remember?”

He’s about to say _nothing_ when something in his mind clicks and the memories rush back. He tenses again, and Aramis must feel the difference this time because he hauls him up to his knees in time for him to throw up. d’Artagnan shudders through the aftershocks, vaguely aware that Aramis is holding him up, murmuring nonsense.

Finally he calms enough for Aramis to help him sit. A waterskin appears from somewhere, and he rinses his mouth and then takes a couple of swallows.

“Better?” Aramis murmurs. d’Artagnan doesn’t bother answering, and after a moment he continues “I guess you remember most of it?”

“Think so,” he agrees, a little hoarse.

Aramis doesn’t speak, but the expectation is obvious. d’Artagnan takes a moment to think, trying to pull scattered memories back together.

“Marmion was working with someone,” he says after a minute. The others are listening, he can tell, but they’re not close and he focuses on Aramis instead. “Someone in the court. He didn’t say any names. He wanted to know about the layout and security of the queen’s chamber. He drove me to exhaustion so I couldn’t fight when he ordered me to be honest. I did my best,” he adds, because Aramis is suddenly terrified for the queen and dauphin. “As much as I could hide. I don’t think he had time to do anything with the information he got, either. That wasn’t long before you came.”

“Do you remember exactly what you said?” Athos asks. Porthos touches Aramis’ shoulder, urging him back and away a little.

d’Artagnan struggles for a moment. “That her chambers are upstairs, in the north wing of the royal apartments, and the Corps are her guards. I couldn’t - I tried, Athos, I just…” Aramis’ worry is beating against him.

“We know you tried,” Athos assures him. “No one could have done better, d’Artagnan. That information is nothing he couldn’t have gotten from any number of servants, and most of them would give it up for a few coins. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Constance told us how bad it hurt you,” Porthos adds. “You did well to keep fighting him, d’Artagnan. Better’n most would have done.”

He rubs absently at his chest. “Like burning,” he murmurs, eyes distant, “from the outside in, and it never stops, and it never eases. I thought I’d go mad,” he adds, and almost immediately regrets it; rage boils up in both Porthos and Athos and his shields buckle under it.

“You don’t have to tell us,” Athos says, voice so even. The dissonance grates on d’Artagnan. “It’s all right.”

He nods, a little relieved. All the humiliation he refused to feel at the time is pushing back in. “I don’t think there was anything else important. Just the sponsor, and the chambers.”

“Simon did say the king wasn’t the point,” Porthos says to Athos.

“But they had the queen separated and did nothing with her. Why wouldn’t…”

“Went off script, maybe, I doubt they were planning to snatch a Musketeer either…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Aramis says abruptly. His hand on d’Artagnan’s arm pulls him back from the edge of unconsciousness again. “d’Artagnan, what was hurting you just before Marmion died? That was an order you were disobeying, yes?”

“He said I wasn’t to allow him get hurt. And I knew Porthos was there. The order expected me to stop him and when I didn’t…” He shrugs uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry that hurt you,” Porthos murmurs.

“Doesn’t matter. It helped in the end.”

Sadness pulses through Aramis, but he smiles gently. “Eat something, d’Artagnan, and then you can sleep. You’re still very weak, there’s little I can do about that.”

“I know.” With a huge effort, he pats Aramis’ hand. “It’s ok. Eat and rest.”

It takes everything he has, but he forces some food down and then falls asleep where he is.

 

If they push, they can make it back to Paris in one day. Athos doesn’t push. He sends the second guide back to report to Treville and they ride slowly. A little over halfway back to Paris, the road follows a river for a while. Porthos finds them a good campsite and they stop there for the night.

Athos makes sure everyone eats, has Aramis check d’Artagnan one more time, then asks if he wants to go swimming. d’Artagnan agrees quickly. Porthos volunteers to keep an eye on him, wading in as far as his waist and watching while d’Artagnan lets himself float for a while.

It seems to help. d’Artagnan is floaty and distracted when Porthos brings him out, eats and sleeps, and seems mostly back to himself by morning. Aramis has recovered as well and it’s more like one of their normal rides, with joking and bantering back and forth. d’Artagnan’s quiet at first, but as they ride he starts to join in, clearly enjoying the fun of it.

That lasts until they reach the gates of Paris, where three apologetic Musketeers surround them to escort them to the palace.

d’Artagnan is completely silent as they travel through the streets. Their escort do their best not to make it obvious what’s happening, making it look like they’re just a group of Musketeers. Athos appreciates it, but he still doesn’t like the situation.

Treville meets them at the gate. “Utter nonsense,” he mutters. “You all right?” he adds to d’Artagnan.

“Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan says quietly.

“Good. Keep your head down and try not to say any more than you have to.” He looks at the others. “Athos, you too. You’ll have to wait outside, I’m afraid,” he adds to Aramis and Porthos.

Aramis scowls. Porthos starts to protest.

“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan says, dismounting to follow Treville. “It’s fine, guys. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” As they pass through the doors into the building, he adds “I’m in disgrace, sir?”

“Rochefort’s been whispering in the king’s ear all the time you’ve been gone.”

He nods. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“From what I’ve heard you did everything possible. This is just Rochefort pushing for his own advantage again. Keep that in mind.”

d’Artagnan nods. Athos takes the two steps to put himself level with Treville.

“This is wrong, sir.”

“I know.”

There’s nothing else to say. Athos drops back to walk beside d’Artagnan again.

He tunes out most of Louis’ rant. None of it is surprising. Although Louis does admit that d’Artagnan couldn’t be expected to fight off a foreign Ability, he seems to think there should have been another way out of making the call at all. Rochefort lurks behind him, adding words and comments here and there.

d’Artagnan keeps his head down and apologises every time Louis pauses.

“Now,” Louis says finally, after a solid ten minutes of berating him. “We must be careful, of course, in case this Ability is still in effect upon you.”

“The man who laid it is dead, your majesty, as is the man it was focused on,” Athos says swiftly. “We are satisfied the vow has no more effect.”

“The satisfaction of Musketeers does not come into this,” Rochefort says. “By your own report, the reason for taking d’Artagnan was to gain access to the queen’s chambers. We can’t risk any orders he’s not aware of taking effect while he’s anywhere near her.”

“Sir,” Athos protests, but Treville only shakes his head, helpless.

“Do you want me to resign, sire?” d’Artagnan asks quietly.

Louis stares at him for a long time. Athos doesn’t dare breathe.

“No,” Louis says finally. “I don’t believe that’s necessary at this time.”

“Sire, the queen’s safety -”

“The queen’s safety is not your concern, Rochefort. d’Artagnan, you are confined to the garrison until I personally order otherwise, understood?”

“Understood, sire.” He bows. “I’m very grateful that you and your family came through unharmed.”

“Out of curiosity, d’Artagnan. If the coin had come up heads…?”

“I would have fought to my last breath to protect you, sire. I was only ever trying to gain time for the others to reach us.”

“A shame you couldn’t find a better way to do it,” Rochefort snorts, but Athos thinks d’Artagnan has won this round. Louis nods and dismisses them without another word.

“It’ll give me more time to practise,” d’Artagnan says, apropos of nothing, as they head back for the yard to meet the others.

“It’s completely unfair.”

“It’s understandable. There were orders I didn’t hear that still affected me. We don’t know there aren’t any more. The king has to be cautious.”

“He doesn’t have to blame you for making the best of a bad situation.”

“d’Artagnan!” Constance calls from behind them.

He pauses for her to catch up. “I can’t stay, Constance, I’m confined to the garrison.”

“I heard. Rochefort’s gloating about it already. Are you all right?” She looks him up and down.

“I’m a little battered. I’ve had worse. I’ll be fine. You?” He takes her hands gently, examining the bruising around her wrists.

“I’ve had worse,” she echoes quietly. When he lets go of her wrists she presses one hand to the side of his face. “Be strong.”

He nods, turning away. Athos follows quietly.

 

Back at the garrison, Serge serves up something closer to a feast than their normal fare. d’Artagnan thanks him politely, eats his share, and then rises to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Porthos demands, catching his sleeve.

He gestures vaguely. “My room. You all have places to be, I’m sure. No reason you should all be stuck here.”

Porthos looks at Aramis, feigning confusion. “Do you have anywhere to be?”

“I don’t believe I have anywhere to be, no. Do _you_ have anywhere to be?”

“Nah, a lazy night in sounds good to me. Athos, you have anywhere to be?”

“There is a very nice bottle of wine in my rooms,” Athos says. He pauses long enough for Porthos to glare at him. “So perhaps I should go and retrieve it so we can all try it. I’m determined to teach you all to recognise the good stuff by taste.”

“You don’t have to -” d’Artagnan starts.

“Excellent,” Aramis says over him. “We’ll be settled in d’Artagnan’s room when you get back.”

“You really -”

“I’ll find a couple extra chairs,” Porthos agrees. “Can’t all share that sackcloth he calls a bed.”

d’Artagnan gives up. They’re not going to let this go. “At least I spend most of my nights in my own bed,” he says mildly.

Porthos grins and cuffs him as he heads off to find the chairs. Athos is already leaving to get the wine. Aramis heads to the kitchen to get snacks for later.

d’Artagnan watches them with a smile. He may be confined, but he’s not alone.


End file.
